


(not) doing this

by honeybatts



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Almost smut, Grief/Mourning, M/M, NSFW, Stream of Consciousness, WIP, alcohol/drug mention, almost one night stand, before it just gets. sad., death mention, eternal WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 07:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15680481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybatts/pseuds/honeybatts
Summary: isidore has a moral crisis over almost sleeping with a stranger and physical intimacy.





	(not) doing this

* * *

 

       “so, are we doing this,” it’s barely a question and for a second, isidore doesn’t know what he’s talking about. his head is swimming a little and his throat feels raw and sensitive frm the whiskey (which almost killed him once in college and again another time), but he finds himself smiling and nodding anyway, and it’s like he’s watching himself frm a far away window, watching this guy–this absolute fucking stranger that he accidentally called handsome, kind of–fumble with his keys before opening the door and making isidore laugh, though he knew that wasn’t his intention. 

and as soon as he walks into the pitch black of his house and the door closes behind him, there’s his mouth on his, messy and wet but hungry all the same, and it hits isidore clean in the stomach, a strong pull and pang, and he’s kissing back in an embarrassingly sloppy way that he’ll be ashamed of in the morning because it betrays all this… hunger and fucking desperation that’s been pent up and sealed up for years. he feels robert’s body press down on his, pinning him to the door, and he doesn’t not like it–he doesn’t not like it more or less than he should, but the feeling gets lost when his hands move across his chest, under the leather jacket he should’ve complemented, and it’s solid and. nice. isidore is suddenly aware of the tightness in his throat but buries it by pushing his tongue into the half-stranger’s mouth. it’s probably just the whiskey. he hasn’t had whiskey in a long time. he can taste it on robert’s tongue.

       he pulls away and takes isidore’s hand and leads him through the room where his eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dark, even though he’s sure they’re actually open, and up some stairs that must lead to the bedroom. he sloughs off his leather jacket–he can hear it thump against the floor and knock what sound like some glass things over, which he hopes isn’t anything expensive–and he can tell because when isidore touches his chest again, his hands are unrestricted and can move up to broad shoulders and down to his hands which grab isidore by the belt loops and pulls them to him, their hips and lips pressed together and isidore realizes with a giddy laugh that this guy’s hard already, and he doesn’t mind

       then he realizes, that giddiness plummeting to his stomach and rotting there, that he’s hard too and suddenly he minds a lot

       it’s like he’s jerked away by a string, snapped back with a click back into his body, a material witness, fuck. fuck fuck fuck what the fuck was wrong with him, his voice finds him though it’s hoarse and soft and has an edge to it that he doesn’t like, this weird and raw edge that makes him sound… needy, small, desperate, all of those uncomfortable because they’re all true

       “i dont,” words are hard and evasive, but robert hasn’t touched him since he moved, though his fingers are still twisted in his belt loops, “i dont, uhm, normally do this?”

       “do you want to stop?” his voice isn’t unkind, and he’s… thankful, though he doesn’t know why–why he’d be concerned with a stranger taking this the wrong way, taking it personally, as a slight against him. robert’s fingers untangle themselves before isidore can force a “yes” out frm his lips, but when he does, he feels robert’s presence–the pressure, the warmth, the smell of smoke and whiskey–step away from him. a beat hangs between them, and it seems to last forever, even though he knows it must only be a few seconds.

       “i’m. uh, i’m, gonna head on home,” he says, and his voice is shaking, and so are his hands, now clutching his blazer closer to him like he’s some sort of… elizabethian gentlelady whose delicate manners have been offended. he’s thankful for the dark, for once, because if he can’t see robert that well–just the shape of his jaw, really, the sculpt of his shoulders–then maybe he can’t see isidore looking fucking sick. “im… really sorry about this.”

       “don’t be,” robert says, and he feels like he’s just a breath away from him, close enough to kiss again, close enough to get lost in again if he isn’t careful, like he’s some sort of whirlpool or great planet and isidore’s just some rowboat or small spacerock caught in his pull and never had a fucking chance in the first place.

       isidore doesn’t really remember getting to the front door of his house, but he’s there now, though he feels sick and dizzy and like there’s a whole colony of ants crawling under his skin. he pops his head in–Cecelia and a few schoolmates swivel like owls to look at him, and he waves, smiling as best he can, before grabbing a few things from his room and packing them in a little bag and crossing through again, reaching the door when Cecelia’s voice punctures the storm he’s made up in his skull.

       “out again?” she says, and she says it easily and casually, lightly, but isidore’s still scared she can somehow smell the whiskey, the smoke, that he reeks of it, that he looks sick, and she knows and she’s scared again, especially with his keys in his hand. her schoolmates smile too, but are obviously more interested in whatever horror movie they’re watching and the notes they’re going over than this conversation. he doesn’t even know these kids’ names. he should, but he can’t reach them right now.

       “oh–yeah. just gonna,” he jerks his thumb to his car, “check out the nightlife, i guess. good luck with the…” he squints. all he can see of the notes is that they’re stapled together. they kinda blur a little. “stuuudying?”

       she looks at him and beams in the crooked way that Albany used to, and it stabs something into his heart, a screwing guilt, because the taste of robert is still on his tongue and now whiskey and bile burn his throat, he doesn’t deserve to think about Albany right now, his memory of him can’t be tarnished like that, can’t be forgotten like that, can’t bury the years in the blankets and mattress of a strangers bed–

       “actually!” focused again, Cecelia, beaming and tousled, pages stretched out in front of her, the light of the tv illuminating the soft, light peachfuzz on her head in a halo. “we’re going over a script, and if you still aren’t too busy being the life of the party tomorrow morning, i was wondering if you could go over it with us?” the schoolmates turn back to her, a slighted look passing over one of their faces before a strained smile replaces it. isidore nods, guts torn to pieces, before he steps out, giving the kids a muted “goodbye, be safe” as he’s out the door, the cool night air slapping him right in the goddamn face. he breathes it in deep, freezing his lungs, and it’s… a welcome feeling, as long as he keeps his eyes frm drifting off in the direction of robert’s house.

       he doesn’t know how long he’s been driving. he probably shouldn’t be, which is why he’s putting along, and he knows that if he were just drunk he’d be at home watching some shitty reality show, but he can still feel the pressure on his lips and the gentle scratch of stubble on his neck and he feels sick. his hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, keeping him grounded, focused, just until he can get out of town. the road doesn’t swim as much as it did before–he’s no longer pulling left or right, not that it’d really matter, actually, as there’s no one even on the road, but it’s the thought that counts and the thought makes his stomach churn if he thinks too much abt it. fucking… fuck. he doesn’t even remember what his thought process was, how willingly he could have forgotten Albany like he was some far off dream the moment some hot skin touched his, (wip)

**Author's Note:**

> wow!! it's my only dream daddy wip frm 2017 that never got finished and probably never will :') this started out as a really casual drabble and then expanded into what it is! it was gonna end with isidore parking by the beach and anxiously hotboxing himself and sleeping off his high before driving back to face his kid! oh yeah, albany was isidore's previous husband who passed away frm a terminal illness! isidore has a TON of guilt regarding his passing.


End file.
